Ragdoll
by BROXA
Summary: It should've been a run of the mill hunt: pissed off, revenge seeking spirit. But when the tables are turned, and Sam finds himself the target of a deranged ghost, things take a far more sinister turn...
1. Chapter 1

Ragdoll

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Sadly. Rhett, Wisconsin, is, to my knowledge, NOT a real town. If it is, the similarity was unintentional. Rose Orlen is mine, the ghost is mine…yeah, anything you don't recognize is mine.

Author's Note: I'm sorry if the description of the ghost grosses anyone out, but I had to describe her in such detail. Otherwise you guys wouldn't get the picture of how horrible she truly was.

Summary: Her arms were gone from the elbow down, and her eyes were crazed. She never spoke again, except for a single repeated phrase: 'Such a pretty doll…'

.xxx.

_October 29th, 2003—Rhett, Wisconsin_

Rose Orlen sighed quietly as she padded into her room, bare feet leaving wet marks on the hardwood floor—she had just taken a shower, and it was time for her to brush her hair. After a quick detour to the stereo, she sat down at her ornate white vanity, and began to run the brush through her hair as Mariah Carey's 'Don't Forget About Us' blasted from the speakers. She smiled at her reflection: beautiful. Not a single blemish, no split ends, and skin as soft and pale as snow.

She was bright; she was beautiful. Naturally, she attracted attention. And not always the positive kind.

On the 66th stroke on the right side of her head, she heard a loud moan from outside of her window. For a minute, she was afraid…but then she remembered. It was Halloween; Billy and the guys were probably just trying to scare her. But that delusion was smashed when another sound floated through the window: a woman's sob, so heartbreaking that Rose was compelled to get up, clutching her bathrobe around her, and open the window.

The sky was pitch black, and a powerful wind bent trees and swirled fallen leaves around. But despite the noises, there was nothing out there but the trees and leaves. She poked her head out of the window, damp hair blowing around her head, but still she saw nothing. With a frown, Rose ambled away from the window, snapped off the stereo and the lights, and got into bed.

She forgot to close the window.

At 3:06 in the morning, the room, already dark, seemed to grow darker yet. Any light that the moon had shed was sucked up by creeping shadows, and the temperature dropped at least 10 degrees. A dark shape flitted through the window, about the size of an average packing crate, and exuding an unpleasant smell. Rose subconsciously wrinkled her nose, but didn't awake.

As if cautious, the shadow drifted into the center of the room, and suddenly solidified into a horrific apparition. It was the image of a woman who had obviously been breathtakingly beautiful in life. Her eyes were brown, and her skin creamy and pale. But there was something wrong: she was missing body parts. Her left shoulder had a deep cut into it, so deep that the muscle was visible, and both of her feet had been violently hacked off. The right arm had been completely severed. There were deep slashes all over her body, some of which were sewn up with thick black thread, others of which were simply left open, giving a lovely view of her entrails, muscles and bones. The three middle fingers of her left hand were cut off, and her thumb was twisted at an unnatural angle. But the worst was her neck: it looked like someone had hacked into it with an axe, but hadn't quite finished the job. Her head hung at an unnatural angle, leaving flesh visible on both sides. Nor did she have any hair; it had been sheared off by an amateur barber in uneven patches, leaving oozing red scars on her scalp and ears. All in all, she was a hideous spectacle.

The ghost drifted over to the sleeping girl, and leaned over Rose. She –it— smiled slightly, revealing cracked and broken teeth, and reached into her ragged dress. With a soft sigh, it drew out a tiny glass bottle, half filled with a bright blue powder. Clutching the phial between her pinkie and twisted thumb, she tore out the cork with her ravaged teeth, and carefully tapped a few grains over the girl's face. After a dainty cough, Rose was silent. The ghost waited a few minutes, then murmured, "_Emanio_," and the comatose girl slowly rose out of her bed, the flowered sheet still draped over her levitating body. "_Vado, induco, licentia,"_ she whispered, and the sheet slipped off her body.

She trailed a finger down the girl's cheek, and, with a quiet snap, reverted to her shadow form. Quickly, it drifted out of the window, with the girl following dreamily after her.

.xxx.

_November 29th, 2003—30 miles away from Rhett_

For exactly a month, there was no trace of Rose Orlen. But on November 29th, two teenaged boys discovered a small back alley in the city of Dale, about 30 miles away from Rhett.

The boys, Billy and Collin, spent ten minutes or so daring each other to go into the foggy, dark alley, until Billy finally rolled his eyes and strolled into the alley. Collin, laughing, hurried after him.

"Hey, Coll…d'ya hear that?" Billy whispered, his eyebrows diving towards the center of his forehead.

"Hear what?" Collin whispered back, looking around the alley. They didn't have a flashlight, and the alley was pretty damn dark.

"That, over there! Listen!" Billy answered urgently, and the two boys fell silent, listening hard.

Finally, the incoherent whispering became clear as they inched closer to the source of the sound: _"Such a pretty doll…such a pretty doll…such a pretty doll…," _and the phrase was repeated over and over again.

It grew louder and louder, until Collin tripped over something at his feet. He squeaked, a very un-manly sound, and stumbled back. "Fuck, Billy!"

"What, what? What is it?" Billy asked in a high pitched voice, and suddenly the alley was filled with a blinding light. For a minute, the boys were disoriented: the change from pitch black to fluorescent light could hurt anyone's eyes; then, their sight cleared, and they both looked down to see what Collin had tripped over.

It was a girl, sitting on the pavement. She was naked, with long blonde hair covering most of her body, and she was rocking back and forth, twitching. Her lips were moving, and as Billy leaned closer, he realized what she was saying: "Such a pretty doll…such a pretty doll…," over and over again. He exchanged glances with Collin, who was pale as a ghost, and gently swept her hair back in an attempt to see if she was hurt.

Her arms were gone from the elbow down. Billy yelled and fell back, feeling cold alley water soak through the seat of his Abercrombie jeans. Collin reacted in a different way: swearing loudly and taking off down the alley, Converses slapping the wet pavement.

"Rose!" Billy cried, recognizing her. She didn't react, only continued rocking back and forth and twitching spasmodically. And she kept on saying that damned phrase with a glazed look in her eyes.

With tears in his eyes, he leaned forward to examine the wounds. He expected to see infected, ragged wounds, but he didn't. It was almost like her arms had been cut off with a laser; the arms were just gone. No blood or gore, just a neat little circle of flesh, a thin layer of skin, and a bright white bone in the middle of it all. Billy gagged loudly, and carefully picked up his twitching, muttering ex-girlfriend in his arms. He ignored the fact that she was soaking wet, and hurried out of the alley, squinting against the fluorescent light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

.xxx.

Rose Orlen was admitted to the Wisconsin State Insane Asylum on November 30th, 2003. She never spoke again, except for the phrase, which she said all day, every day. The poor girl only slept if sedated, and even as she slept, she'd twitch and mutter about the pretty doll. Eventually, Rose was put into solitary confinement (she scared the other inmates), and put into a straitjacket and a padded room to keep her from hurting herself.

The doctors never did find out how her arms had been removed, and the police never found the culprit.

.xxx.

Well, that's chapter one of Ragdoll! I hope you guys like it!


	2. Chapter 2

Ragdoll

By, december.morning

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Sadly. Rhett, Wisconsin, is, to my knowledge, NOT a real town. If it is, the similarity was unintentional. Rose Orlen is mine, the ghost is mine…yeah, anything you don't recognize is mine.

Author's Note: Sorry the update is late, I've been stressing over County Choir…

Summary: Her arms were gone from the elbow down, and her eyes were crazed. She never spoke again, except for a single repeated phrase: 'Such a pretty doll…'

.xxx.

Technically, Dean Winchester had never been on a vacation. Sure, there had been that time in Vermont…but it had turned out to be a lie; while John had _said_ they were going to go skiing, there had really been a Bigfoot lurking, quite conveniently, in the same mountains they had stayed at. And there was Florida, too—they were supposed to go to Disneyworld –God, how had he believed that lie?— but really they were going to bust some poltergeist's ass.

So their childhood had been kind of fucked up, even Dean could admit it.

But still—why had Sammy taken it upon himself to plan a "getaway" to Rhett, Wisconsin?

Taking care to be inconspicuous, Dean sneaked a glance at Sam, who was sitting rigidly in the passenger's seat of the Impala, staring at a map of Wisconsin with slightly glazed eyes. Carefully, Dean tilted his head so he could see Sam's face, and was unpleasantly surprised by how pale and unhealthy Sam looked. There were black circles a zombie would have envied under his eyes, and he was pastier than an Eskimo.

"Hey, Sammy…ever heard of a little thing called sleep? I hear it's real nice," Dean said conversationally, still eyeing Sam, while simultaneously guiding the Impala down the lonely Wisconsin highway. It was getting dark, and it looked like it was going to rain, to boot. He tightened his grip on the wheel subconsciously.

"Not now, Dean," Sam answered distractedly, tracing a route on the crumpled map—Dean wasn't the world's best map folder.

"C'mon, Sammy. I'm offering you a golden opportunity to bitch at me! I know you like that," Dean answered promptly, grinning roguishly. However, his attempt at lightheartedness fell short as Sam fixed him with an irritated glare that would've shut even their Dad up.

"Turn here, there's a motel. Grade-D, full of rats and shit. Our kind of place," Sam said dryly, pointing out a turn that Dean definitely would've missed, had he been on his own.

Dean snuck another glance at Sam, but chose not to say anything. He took the turn, and they drove in silence for a while, until they passed a faded, weather-beaten sign that read 'Welcome to Rhett, Wisconsin!' A flicker of recognition passed through his mind…where had he heard that name before? It sounded so familiar…

Briefly, he considered getting the journal from the backseat, but then he remembered he was still driving. Right, no acrobatics while driving.

"Hey, Sammy? Why Rhett?" He asked cautiously, hoping that Sam wouldn't freak out over the usage of the hated nickname. Thankfully, his little brother didn't, only heaved a huge sigh, and said in an eerily deadpan voice:

"It seemed like our kind of place, Dean."

.xxx.

Sam watched his brother for a few minutes, wondering if he was going to persist, but thankfully he only sighed loudly and put in a Metallica tape. With an effort, Sam was able to keep himself from wincing. Vainly, he tried out to block out 'Highway to Hell', instead focusing on the graphic dreams and 'presents' he'd been receiving for the last few weeks.

It had started on October 29th, when he had opened the door of their shoddy motel, only to step on a human finger, lying like some sort of grotesque gift. He remembered trying (and failing) not to gag as he lifted up his shoe, and scraped the pulpy mess off of the sole of his shoe. Naturally, he hadn't told Dean—he had buried the finger…and the hand…and the arm…

And the _dreams_, my God, the dreams! He shuddered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping he could somehow press the memories out of his brain. Every one had been the same…

_A quick flash of a battered calendar—the date was October 29th, but the year had been scribbled out. His vision panned across the floor of the room (presumably, a basement, judging from the dripping walls and lack of windows), which was strewn with body parts, and, interestingly enough, thick, black thread._

_He frowned –always frowning!— and took a few cautious steps forward, only to have the toe of his cheap Adidas' collide with something. Sighing, he looked down. It was Dean's leather jacket, just lying there in a heap. He crouched down and lifted the jacket; below it was a large blood stain. _

_Disturbingly enough, he was remarkably unconcerned about the jacket and blood; he just stood up and ambled away. Now that his eyesight was beginning to adjust to the stifling darkness, he could just make out a door, painted electric blue, and decorated with many scratches, all of them deep and long._

_A sort of morbid curiosity permeated Sam's mind at this point, and he tilted his head as he came up to the door. After a moment's hesitation, he twisted the bloody handle and kicked the door in._

_For a minute, he merely stood in the doorway, taking in the odd scene in front of him. A metal gurney was positioned in the center of the room, and a tray of surgical instruments, each one covered in dried blood, stood next to the head of the gurney. The floor of the room was also covered in blood, in a telltale pattern; it looked like many bodies had been dragged across the floor over a long amount of time. But the walls were the most grotesque of all; these were covered with shelves, which in turn were groaning with glass jars and boxes._

_The containers were quite ordinary; what was extraordinary was the contents. Each jar or box was filled with some sort of body part…eyeballs floated in a greenish liquid; fingers were arrayed in a glass case, with severed hands in another case right beside them. Skeins of human hair hung from the ceiling, and there were jars and jars of teeth everywhere. Legs and feet sat in size-appropriate cases, as did torsos and necks. Each body part had been severed neatly, obviously with great care, and sorted into categories by size in an almost obsessive fashion._

_He swung around, and along the back wall ran another shelf. This one, too, was covered in jars, each one the same size, and filled with a clear liquid. With a morbid curiosity, Sam tilted his head and came forward. _

_Each jar was filled with heads. Human heads. The eye sockets were sunken—naturally, as the eyes had been sorted by color into jars across the room—as were the mouths, and there was no hair on the heads. Sam assumed the hair hanging from the ceiling had come from the severed heads he was now staring at._

_Unable to control himself, he reached forward and picked up a jar. Raising it high above his head, he dropped it. The jar shattered, as did the head inside, spraying blood and brain matter all over the floor. _

_An unearthly shriek filled the room, and Sam whirled around, only to see a dark shadow hurtling towards him. He tried to run, but found himself glued to the spot. Still screaming, the thing flung itself through his chest. _

_Sam screamed—screamed louder than he'd ever screamed in his whole life._

.xxx.

Dean damn near had a heart attack as Sam began screaming in the passenger seat. Swearing loudly, he took a hand off the steering wheel, but his prodding was unneeded; Sam shot up, nearly hitting his head on the visor, and looked at Dean with a wild look in his eyes.

He opened his mouth, then apparently thought better of it, and turned his attention back to the road, trying to ignore Dean, who was still staring hard at him.

Dean almost said something, but his brother's wild shout distracted him.

"Shit! Look out!" Sam cried, jabbing a finger at the windshield.

For the second time that evening, Dean yelled a string of obscenities that would have made a sailor blush, and jerked the steering wheel. The Impala's tires squealed loudly as it bumped off the road, and Dean quickly killed the ignition and threw himself out of the car, Sam close behind.

Sitting in the middle of the highway was a girl, pale white skin shining in the moonlight—_sky's clear_, noticed Dean idly—with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She was oblivious to the fact that she had been run over, and seemed not to notice Dean's angry shout of "Hey! What the hell's the matter with you?" On the contrary, the girl continued to twitch and mutter.

Sam leaned closer to her, to try and catch what she was saying.

_"Such a pretty doll…"_ she murmured, and continued to repeat the phrase spasmodically, twitching horribly.

"Sam, call the cops," Dean said quickly, hurrying around to the front of the girl.

He had to stop himself from screaming.

Her chest had been sliced neatly open, right over the left side of her chest. It was a neat, tidy incision, almost as if it had been done with a laser. Numbly, Dean realized that he could see her bones, veins, the bloody hole where her heart should be—

_The bloody hole where her heart should be?_

Suddenly, the girl's eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and she pitched forward; Dean jumped backwards to avoid having her fall on his toes.

Sam slowly put his phone away.

"Look's like we've got a case, Sammy," Dean said thickly, resisting the strong urge to stumble into the sparse vegetation and vomit.

The girl twitched again, then lay still.

.xxx.

Phew…it's probably bad, I wrote this with the most God-awful writer's block. But…it's here! –chews nails-

Review responses:

lunarsun-solarmoon: I hope you're still alive to read this! XD!

Narckisses 2 JTP JRA: Whoa, thanks! I really try to describe things in full, I hope this one lives up to expectations!

fairytalemanipulator: Hope you haven't had any withdrawal symptoms! Here's the newest one. Or, there was. Lol.

Ghostwriter: Yeah, I was going for interesting…like, what the hell! One of those types.

sexybeast: Whoa, great review! That made my day! What's with the doll? Well, you'll just have to find out! I'll tell you one thing though: It's not the type of doll you'd give to a child, that's for damn sure! I'd like to know how you could kill someone with a doll, though…XD.


	3. Chapter 3

Ragdoll

By, BROXA

Disclaimer: Again, everything you don't recognize is mine.

Author's Note: Sorry, I forgot to include the dates in the last entry. Oh, and about the last part…NO, this is NOT turning into The Ring.

Summary: Her arms were gone from the elbow down, and her eyes were crazed. She never spoke again, except for a single repeated phrase: 'Such a pretty doll…'

.xxx.

November 29th, 2004

For once in his life, Dean had nothing to say. The sight of the girl, so young and beautiful, crumpled at his feet, got to him. Sure, he'd seen dead things before—hell, most of the time he'd been the one who had killed them in the first place. But never before had he seen the fresh corpse of a human. So while Sam paced, Dean just stood in the middle of the highway, staring at the body, his mind blank.

"We need to get outta here…just standing here, it looks like we killed her," Sam said quietly, seemingly very interested in a patch of sky just over Dean's left shoulder.

For a minute, Dean didn't register that Sam was talking to him, but as something clicked into place in his mind, he jolted back to reality and nodded slowly. "Yeah…we'll just let the cops—" the last two words of his sentence ('find her') were cut off by the raucous clatter of an approaching car.

Dean swore under his breath as a set of high heels clattered noisily on the pavement. He looked up to see a teenaged girl in taupe cargoes, a graphic tank top and boho-y sandals hurrying up to the body, seemingly oblivious to Sam and Dean, who were standing awkwardly, trying not to move for some odd reason.

With a subtle gesture, Sam caught Dean's eye, and, with a series of quick hand movements, told him to be quiet. This advice proved useful as the girl fell to her knees on the pavement, and murmured something that would've been unintelligible, had Sam and Dean not been so uncharacteristically quiet.

"Not again…"

This time, both brothers eyed each other simultaneously; before Sam cleared his throat slightly, an odd look in his eyes.

The girl visibly started, lurching off of the pavement in an ungraceful motion. She eyed Sam with wild eyes, while Dean shifted his weight, watching the both of them warily.

"This has happened before? These murders?" Sam asked, a strange note in his voice. Was it panic? Anxiety? Dean furrowed his eyebrows, trying to gauge the emotion.

"Yeah…one every year. You…you didn't do this, did you?" She answered, her voice quavering; she was obviously terrified by the thought of Sam and Dean being the murderers.

"No, no! We just found her here—"

"Almost ran her over, more like," Dean grumbled, and the girl jumped again, as if startled that Sam wasn't alone. She peered nervously around the highway, probably searching for more 'concealed' friends.

"I—oh. I didn't think a human could've done this, anyway…but…" she bit her lip and looked away.

"But…?" Sam pushed gently, taking a step towards her.

"Can we get out of here first? The body's starting to freak me out," the girl answered, and Dean grinned.

"Amen to that," Dean muttered, resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder at the corpse as he hurried back to the Impala. Sam followed, and the girl got back into her rusty old Mercury.

She turned the keys several times, thumped the dashboard smartly, and swore loudly as the engine gave a low moan, and almost turned over, but then died.

"Guess I'm riding with you," she commented, locking the Mercury, and letting herself into the back seat of the Impala. "I'll give you directions to my house, okay?"

Dean only grunted, but Sam answered: "Okay."

.xxx.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the Impala glided into the driveway of a rundown looking house. The three of them got out of the car, slamming their doors almost at the same time, and the girl (who had yet to give them a name) unlocked the cracked front door with a cheap plastic looking key.

None of them said anything –Sam and Dean eyeing their surroundings with a critical eye; the girl preoccupied and nervous— until she waved a hand at the faded paisley couch in an otherwise empty room. The two of them sat down (Dean's eyes widened as the couch almost fell out beneath him; as it was, he sunk almost six inches into the couch), and the girl sank into a plaid armchair.

"So…I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean," Sam said conversationally, and Dean looked up from his attempts to free himself from the constraints of the man-eating couch. He grinned and jerked his head at her by means of greetings, and she smiled back, but it was a weak grin.

"I'm Sara. Nice to meet you both," she replied softly, her shockingly green eyes darting back and forth from Sam to Dean.

"Yeah…so, those killings," Dean said, raising his eyebrows as he finally freed himself from the couch. Taking care not to lean back, he perched himself on the edge of the couch and smiled kindly at Sara.

"Right. Anyway, they've been happening since 1991. Every October 29th, a girl –and she's always, like, Playboy gorgeous— disappears from her bed without any signs at all, except for a weird bluish sand they always find scattered over the sheets," she said cautiously, eyes fixed on Dean as though daring him to laugh.

"Go on," Sam prompted.

"On November 29th, they find the missing girl. She's always far from home, but that's not all. Every girl they find is missing a body part—eyes, hair, teeth, arms, hands, fingers…you know. And every last one of them is insane," here she twirled a finger around her right ear, maybe trying to lighten the situation, but far from loosening the tension, both brothers frowned. Dean's eyes were narrowed; he was mentally scanning the pages of their Dad's journal, searching for something related to what she was saying, but Sam's eyes were growing wider and wider. So far, everything Sara had said was corresponding with the dreams he'd been having.

"Not one of the girls ever speaks again—all they said is this one phrase: 'such a pretty doll'. Over and over again. 24/7. The doctors can't figure it out, and the police are stumped."

For a minute, Sam just stared, stunned, at the girl; meanwhile, Dean was staring into space, his lips moving soundlessly as he continued to search the journal.

"It's always the same day? October and November 29th?" Sam asked, and Sara nodded.

"Yes, always. And it's always from the bed, there's always blue sandy stuff, and when they find the girls, they're always nuts," Sara answered frankly, bobbing her head.

Dean, having finished with the journal, turned his attention back to Sara. "You were gonna tell us something back on the highway. Was that it?"

"Well, no…I have an idea of who's doing the killing," she responded, her eyes lighting up. "But don't laugh…see, I think it's a ghost."

"Go on, go on!" Dean prodded, getting tired of her seemingly constant need to be needled for information. Sam frowned, but Sara continued anyway.

"Well, back in '91, there was this girl…Audrey Tine, that was her name. She had this boyfriend, and they were really in love, but he found her cheating on him. He got mad and killed her…dismembered her, actually," she added, raising her eyebrows.

"And…" Dean said impatiently.

"Get this—he killed her on October 29th. They didn't find the body until November 29th. So I think her ghost might be killing people!"

"What about the boyfriend? What was his name?" Sam asked eagerly, his mind racing.

"Oh, his name was weird…Claw, or Blade…some new age shit like that. He was pretty freaky, too, if you think about it. Talon –that was his name!— was a Pagan; he did a lot of weird magic-y shit. He got Audrey into it, too."

"But what _happened_ to him?" Dean pushed, frustrated.

"He blew his brains out; felt bad about what he did to Audrey. They found _his _body on December 6th," Sara concluded. "And that's all I know about _that._"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, the eyebrow telegraph flashing fast. Then Sam stood up, shook hands with Sara, and, muttering thanks and goodbyes, left the rundown house.

"That was interesting…what she said makes sense," Sam commented in satisfaction, his lips quirking up into a smile as Dean fumbled the Impala's keys. "Butterfingers."

Dean snorted as he bent over to pick up the keys; Sam continued walking towards the Impala.

"Holy shit…Dean, look at this!" Sam whispered, and Dean got back up and hurried up to Sam.

"What, what…fuck! My car!" He moaned in anger, eyes popping as he stared at the hood of the car.

Written in what looked horribly like blood across the hood of his Impala were two words:

_SEVEN DAYS._

Sam snuck a glance at his brother, who was pale with rage. Wisely, he said nothing; only slid into the passenger's seat of the defiled car. Dean, after smearing a finger across the still moist blood, lifted his lips in what looked oddly like a snarl, and touched his finger to his tongue. After a second of consideration, Dean pulled a face and stalked over to the driver's side of the car.

"Dude, someone fucking wrote on my _car_. In _blood_," he growled, sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door harder than was necessary. Sam, again, didn't comment; he was deep in thought.

_Seven days until what?_

.xxx.

Far away from the highway the Impala was now hurtling down, the mutilated ghost leered and picked up a pen, holding it with difficulty, as it only had two fingers.

Tongue between its yellowed teeth, the specter leaned close to the battered calendar tacked to the wall, and crossed out a date: November 29th. Silently, it trailed one of its fingers across the calendar, skimming over the remaining seven days, stopping at a date that was circled in red pen: December 6th.

Scrawled messily across the too-small box were three words:

_Reunited at last._

.xxx.

Yeah, I realize that there was, like, NO action in this chapter, but ALL of the information is vital to the story, so this chapter had to be written…anyway, I had fun writing it. XDify!

Review responses:

Ghostwriter: Yeah, I realized that…oopsie!

rozzy02: Of course you may! There's your healthy helping of SN fanfic. 

fairytalemanipulator: Thanks! I hope you actually didn't cry! XD.


	4. Chapter 4

Ragdoll

By, BROXA

Disclaimer: Again, everything you don't recognize is mine.

Author's Note: For those who don't know, Braille is the raised writing used for blind people. It's a system of raised dots. Oh, and the mutilated ghost-thing in the first chapter is Audrey Tine. Just thought I'd say.

Summary: It should've been a run of the mill hunt: pissed off, revenge seeking spirit. But when the tables are turned, and Sam finds himself the target of a deranged ghost, things take a far more sinister turn...

.xxx.

November 30th, 2004

No matter how long Dean spent scrubbing the Impala, the blood didn't come off. On the contrary, the message seemed to sink deeper into the paint, until it gave the illusion of being _under_ the paintjob, somehow shining through the black exterior of the car.

As it was, the message shimmered ominously, a sinister reminder of…what? What was the ghost, or whatever had written it, trying to tell them? 'Seven days'…what could it mean?

Glaring at the words, Dean grumbled something incoherent under his breath, threw the sponge he'd been using into the rusty bucket that the owner of the local Sunoco had leant him. The bucket tipped over, spreading water all over the pavement, and alerting the station owner. Through the window, Dean could see the man's head jerk up from the magazine (Dean suspected it was Playboy, given the slightly glazed look in the man's eyes) he was reading. After glaring suspiciously around for a few minutes, the man hauled himself out of his chair and ambled over to Dean.

"You crazy kids and your detailin'…" the pudgy man muttered, shaking his head. Ignoring Dean's soundless protests, he moved closer to the car and bent his head over the writing. "'Seven days'? What are you, some kinda _The Ring_ freak?"

"No! Some psycho wrote it on my car! Why would someone put graffiti on their own car?" He asked scathingly, absentmindedly rubbing a finger across the grotesque writing. It wasn't even wet anymore, but it seemed to be raised up, like some sort of sadistic Braille.

The man eyed Dean for a long, uncomfortable moment, before turning around. He seemed to be talking to himself; Dean disregarded this until he heard the name Audrey mentioned among the sea of unintelligible mutterings.

"Wait a minute! Did you say Audrey? As in, Audrey Tine?" Dean asked quickly, taking several steps towards the man, who winced and turned around reluctantly.

"Yes. Yes, I did. _The Ring_ was my Audrey's favorite movie…nice kid, she was. But that _boyfriend_ of hers…he was horrible. Wore a pentagram, and when he blew his brains out…oh, Jesus, when they performed an autopsy, they found a rabbit head in one of his pockets, and dog entrails in the other one! Awful kid," the man added, his eyebrows knitted. When Dean failed to produce an answer, he turned around and slouched back into the small convenience store, still muttering about how awful Talon had been.

Rabbit heads and dog guts…it was a familiar combination; he knew he'd heard John mention it before. But Sam was the more likely one to remember it, so he got back into the defiled Impala and hurried back to the hotel Sam was waiting at.

.xxx.

"Rabbit heads and dog guts?" Sam repeated skeptically, opening up the laptop.

"Yeah. They found 'em in his pockets during the autopsy. Maybe it's some sorta spell? Sara said he was a Pagan, right?" Dean answered, leaning over Sam as he tapped away on the laptop.

A few tense, silent moments passed, before Sam grinned triumphantly. "Got it. The stuff they found in his pockets were ingredients for some sort of Satanic return spell. As in, return to life," Sam said with satisfaction. "There's only one other ingredient…ground up blue topaz."

"So, Talon killed his girlfriend, then himself, but did some freaky Pagan shit so he could come back? But that made Audrey mad, so now she's killing people?" Dean asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but a knock on their hotel door prevented him from doing so. Looking at Dean, who shrugged, he closed the laptop, walked over to the door, and opened it.

For a split second, he only stared at the mutilated girl hovering in the doorway. Then he gave a loud yell and stumbled back, as the ghost of Audrey Tine drifted into the hotel room. The room, which had been full of daylight, was being sucked of any and all light, until it was darker than a full solar eclipse. All of the light was sucked into Audrey's horribly disfigured body, until she glowed with an unearthly light that forced Sam and Dean to squint so not to be blinded.

As the light grew still brighter, Sam realized that the ghost was holding something: two eyeballs. She dropped them on the floor, where they rolled across the stained carpet, and stopped, one at Sam's feet, the other at Dean's.

"You need to see what is right before you. Your theory is wrong. Talon—"

But exactly what she was going to say about Talon, they never knew.

With a crash, the motel window exploded, showering Sam and Dean with broken glass. A shadow, even blacker than the darkness in the room, hurtled into the room, and threw itself at Sam. For a minute, it hovered in front of him, then dove into his chest…just like in the dream.

It was like he was being possessed by Ellicott all over again. Foreign thoughts and memories flooded his subconscious: being shouted at by a pudgy man in a Sunoco uniform…killing and dismembering Audrey…sewing back together her body a month later, but leaving out some parts that were too rotten to be saved…working the return spell, and crumbling the blue topaz over her…killing himself, but not before putting the spell over himself…and, most predominately, charming Audrey to kill the girls.

Talon seemed to have only one thought: _COLLECT THE PARTS AND POSSESS THE BOY. REUNITED AT LAST._

Vaguely, Sam heard Dean shouting, and Audrey's ghost crying, but Talon crushed all of his attempts to throw out the foreign entity. Talon turned Sam's head in Dean's direction, and spoke in an awful, deep voice.

"Seven days until Samuel Winchester is obliterated. Seven days until the ragdoll is sewn together. Seven days until we are reunited at last," Talon intoned, while Sam struggled to regain control of his own body.

As quickly as he came, Talon leapt out of Sam's body, and hurtled out of the window. Helplessly, Audrey stared at Dean, who was on his feet, holding a rock salt gun, then at Sam, who was sprawled across the floor.

"Look beyond the exterior. I am not the villain," she murmured, then vanished with a loud pop, seconds before Dean pulled the trigger. Salt blasted into the wall behind Audrey, and, as if on cue, light flooded back into the room, and the door blew shut. Fighting an urge to throw an arm across his smarting eyes, Dean dropped the gun, and hurried over to Sam, who, to his relief, was stirring.

"Hey, Sammy? You awake?" Dean asked quietly, squatting next to Sam.

"Yeah," came the reply, quiet and weak.

"That's the second time, little bro. You have a helluva knack for getting psychos to possess you," he cracked, trying not to show Sam how frightened he'd been. God, his heart was still racing…

"Dean, it isn't Audrey. It's Talon. He's making her do it," Sam said, dodging Dean's weak joke and sitting up against the bed.

"You getting some more ' the Shining' shit, or did Talon show you that?" Dean inquired, eyebrows knitting.

"Talon did. I don't think he meant to, though. I saw his memories when he possessed me…killing Audrey, sewing her back together, killing himself, then putting a spell on her so she killed the girls. But there was one memory that didn't fit. The first one, it was of Talon getting yelled at by a fat guy in a Sunoco uniform," Sam finished, watching Dean, whose eyes were getting bigger and bigger.

"Dude, I think I met that guy today!"

"You serious?" Sam said quickly, straightening up more.

"Yeah! Y'know, he said something weird…'my Audrey'. Like he was her dad or something," he answered, almost to himself.

For a minute, both brothers were silent, thinking. Then Sam began talking slowly.

"I bet he was…I've got a theory, Dean. I think that Mr. Sunoco didn't like Talon being with his little girl. So, Talon killed her, then himself…" he trailed off, and was cut off by Dean.

"Know what I think, Sammy? I think Talon wants to possess you in seven days, and use your corporeal form to sew together that ragdoll he mentioned!" Dean said, with the excited air of one who has just figured out a puzzle.

"That's why they're collecting body parts!" Sam finished triumphantly. "He wants to get Audrey a new body!"

The two brothers stared at each other, until the door started banging raucously. This time, it was Dean who opened the door.

A man with coarse brown hair and a pendulous belly leaned against the doorway, huffing and puffing—the motel owner. He took one look around the room, with its shattered window and rock salt craters (not to mention the eyeballs Audrey had left on the floor), and jabbed a finger at Dean's chest.

"_You_ can get the fuck outta my motel!" He said angrily, words punctuated by wheezes: it seemed that the owner didn't get much exercise.

"Okay, _sir_...your security sucks ass, by the way. It let a ghost in," Dean added pleasantly, quirking an eyebrow as he picked up their duffel bags, stuffing the rock salt gun into it as he went. He helped Sam up, and together they squeezed past the glaring motel owner.

The man stumped behind them for three flights of stairs, puffing like a whale. No one spoke, except for a quick, muttered 'you okay?' on Dean's part, after Sam stumbled.

Predictably, the owner made it his business to escort them to the Impala. Throwing the bags into the backseat, Dean slid into the drivers' seat, and Sam into the passenger's seat.

As the Impala roared off, the owner shook a fist in the air and shouted after it, "You're payin' for that window, crazy bastard!"

He had to strain to hear it, but Dean's response came sharp and quick: "Yeah, whatever, tubby!"

.xxx.

Kee…I like this chapter.

Review responses:

Sweetie420: Hey, thanks! I really hope you like this one too…I had writers block. Again. Ugh!

Sparks Diamond: Sorry the wait was so long…a whole week! Hope this one's worth it!

WinchestersGirl: Can't be done without the gruesomeness, eh? Yeah, I like detail…I think it's really important to a story! I'm glad you think I'm doing a good job with it! And a joy to r/r? Whoa, thanks!

As usual, I'll post the next chapter on Sunday, unless I get a burst of inspiration!


	5. Chapter 5

Ragdoll

By, BROXA

Disclaimer: You know the drill, peeps.

Authors Note: This is the first truly evil cliffhanger I've ever given before, I think…FEELS GOOD!

Summary: It should've been a run of the mill hunt: pissed off, revenge seeking spirit. But when the tables are turned, and Sam finds himself the target of a deranged ghost, things take a far more sinister turn...

.xxx.

December 1st, 2004

"Small town America's finally grown a brain, Sammy," Dean grumbled, after a third motel owner turned them away. "We've been blacklisted."

Sam cast a half amused, half frustrated glance at his brother. "Tubby must've called his friends."

Even without looking at his brother, Sam could tell that Dean was grinning. The Impala was silent except for the throaty rumble of the engine; for the first time in a long time, the radio was off, and the cassette box was untouched. He smiled lazily; the silence was relaxing.

Without warning, Dean swung the Impala down a turn, and Sam was startled out of his reverie. "Dude! What the hell!"

"No destination; no directions, man," Dean replied, without missing a beat, as if that answered the question. Sam, unable to come up with a suitable comeback, leaned against window and followed the scenery distractedly.

After ten minutes of not-so-silent driving (Dean had put in a Metallica tape, and turned the volume up as far as it would go), the Impala purred to a halt in front of a shabby looking house. For a minute, the brothers just sat in the car, looking at the tiny house; it wasn't much to look at.

The house, which was painted a garish shade of blue (the paint, however, was horrendously chipped), had only one floor, and a tiny front porch, on which a rickety rocking chair sat. There were only two windows, which looked uncannily like eyes, especially with the tattered curtains that could be glimpsed through the grimy glass-'eyelids'. The house exuded an aura of loneliness, like the Bucks County Playhouse, and, although it would've been quite beautiful fixed up, it seemed almost sinister.

Dean turned to Sam and grinned roguishly. "No steam shower, but hey…we'll rough it," he commented, getting out of the Impala.

Sam didn't answer; he a sneaking suspicion that he had seen this lonely house before. It was only when his duffle bag "conveniently" collided with the side of his head that he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. Dean, grinning, thrust the bag at him; Sam caught it with an odd mix between a scowl and a laugh.

Belatedly, he recalled Dean's comment. "More like, no _plumbing_," he said casually, willing Dean to ignore the five minute conversation lapse. Luckily, Dean did.

"Piss in the woods, Princess. 'Less you're scared a squirrel or something would bite your…," Dean replied, but was cut off by Sam. Looking a bit disappointed, Dean slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and led the way up the path.

Sam almost missed the next comment.

"'Course, it's not like you've got anything that could be bitten off…so you'll be safe, Samantha," Dean said quietly, in a super-casual tone, almost like he was talking to himself. Sam gaped soundlessly at Dean's back as the older Winchester fiddled with the doorknob, shocked into silence.

"You think so?" Sam struggled to find a comeback. "Yeah, well…," nothing was coming, and his search for something witty was made more difficult when Dean turned around and grinned, Cheshire cat-esque, at him. Behind him, unheeded, the door creaked open ever so slightly.

"Fuck! Look behind you!" Sam cried suddenly, and Dean arched an eyebrow, laughing.

"Dude, that hasn't worked since…man, that's _never_ work—," the rest of his sentence was cut off, because a large, heavy baseball bat slammed into the side of Dean's head. Dean's eyes flew open, and for an instant, it looked like he was going to say something, but before he could, his eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he dropped to the floor, crumpled on the porch like a forgotten doll.

"Fuck…fuck…," Sam said frantically as the bat dropped to the floor: no one was holding it; it had been floating independently. But he had a good idea of who had been making it move…

He dropped to his knees next to Dean, but before he could say or do anything, the door flew the rest of the way open, and his brother's body was sucked into the pitch black recesses of the house, amid loud bangs and crashes.

His mind whirling, Sam all but ripped open the weapons bag. He snatched a rock salt gun, and half stumbled, half ran into the house. The instant his foot touched the interior floorboards, a booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once filled the house.

"You're early…Audrey, escort our guest to the waiting room so he may join his brother in the sewing room when we are ready," roared a voice that was undeniably Talon's; with a loud pop, the gruesome specter of Audrey Tine materialized in front of Sam. It was the second time he'd seen her, but this time, she didn't seem nearly so reasonable, or even sane. Her sunken eyes had a horrid, maniacal glint to them, and when she spoke, her voice was frantic and excited.

"Reunited at last…reunited! And—you—will—help!" The ghost shrieked, her last sentence alarmingly staccato. She began to float towards Sam, eyes glinting; it was then that he remembered that he had a gun.

He pumped off rounds of rock salt, one after another, but the ghost was always one step ahead of him; she kept vanishing, and rematerializing closer to Sam. After six minutes of frenzied shooting, two things happened simultaneously: the gun made a loud clicking noise that could only mean one thing, and the ghost appeared right in front of Sam.

As he held the empty, useless gun, Audrey Tine clicked her two remaining fingers. A tiny bottle of bluish sand appeared in it, and, quick as you please, she thrust the open bottle at his face. Sand caught in his eyelashes, went up his nose, in his mouth, in the corners of his eyes…everywhere. As the power worked itself in, Sam felt all of his individual thoughts and opinions melt away…instead, they were replaced with a single, reiterated thought.

_Obey._

.xxx.

December 1st, 2004

Even though he had been hit extraordinarily hard with that damn bat, Dean woke up less than ten minutes later. Slowly, rubbing his head, he stood up, and took in his surroundings.

All right. He was in a creepy ass basement, lots of stereotypical horror movie shit: dripping walls, flickering light bulbs swinging from fraying cords every ten feet or so, watermarks on the floor, no windows. No doors, either, from the look of it…but then again, it was pretty fucking dark, even with the light bulbs.

A loud pop echoed suddenly off of the walls, and Dean found himself face to face with Audrey Tine. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but there was nothing there. Scowling, he satisfied himself with giving the specter his most malicious glare. However, Audrey merely smiled slightly.

"Whaddya want, Audrey? Conversation? Distraction? Entertainment?" When none of these struck a cord, he brought out the big guns. "Sex?"

Her sudden change in personality thoroughly alarmed Dean: she went from passive, and smiling vaguely, to violently scowling, her mutilated face contorted with rage. She opened her mouth hotly, but before she could say anything, Dean beat her to it.

"Struck a nerve, have I? Sex is exactly why Talon killed you, isn't it?" Dean said sleekly. Sam had told him all about the visions, every last detail, in the car, and the knowledge made him confident. Unbidden, a phrase from some kids TV show he'd watched _years_ ago came back to him: 'Knowledge is power!'

As much as he hated to acknowledge it, it was true.

"Talon—he, I—he didn't do it!" She answered stubbornly, with the air of a child clinging desperately to a lie: _Mommy and I still love each other very much…friends forever…I'll never leave you…_

_I'll never leave you, Dean. I'll always be with you. _

Forcing his mother's words out of his mind, Dean narrowed his eyes and shook his head deliberately. "No, that's a lie. Your creepy-ass boyfriend killed and halfway dismembered you. And, sweetheart, it _shows_," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"I—no, he loved me! And I loved him!" She cried desperately, liquid brown eyes shimmering: the ghost was crying. But Dean refused to be dissuaded; he had to make her see the truth…

"Yeah, loved him enough to fuck another guy. Nothin' says 'baby, I love you' like your tongue down someone else's throat," he countered immediately. "Doncha think that would've made him just a little bit jealous? Hmm?"

"No! When he found us, he said…he said he'd make it all better…he said we'd get another chance…," she trailed off.

"And then…? Lemme guess. He pulled out gun and shot you," he finished, meeting her eyes.

"No, shot him—oh! He was on top of me—" Dean winced, having no interest in her sex life, especially now that she was dead "—and the bullet hit him in the back…"

"And it traveled through him, right?" He said patiently, although in his mind he was screaming 'hurry, hurry, hurry!'

"I remember…," she said, looking quite shell shocked. "The bullet went through him. Right into my heart—" she scrabbled at her dress; right over her heart, there was a ragged bullet hole. The ghost gave a dry sob, and continued. "He…he pulled him off of me, and held me. He said, 'baby, I'm sorry. I'll make it better. We'll get a second chance'. He killed me! Talon killed me!"

"And then he—" inspiration suddenly struck; "This was your old house, wasn't it? He killed and dismembered you right in this very house!"

"My—my body is probably here somewhere," she murmured, swaying slightly in midair.

"We need to—"

"I don't wanna be with him anymore! He's a—a—fuckin' murderer!" She hissed, and darted to what Dean had thought was a stretch of differently textured wall, but was in fact an electric blue door. _The same one from Sammy's visions_, he realized, with a thrill of terror.

.xxx.

December 1st, 2004

For the last fifteen minutes or so, Talon had been hopping experimentally in and out of Sam's body. Sam, being tied up hand and foot, blindfolded, and still extremely disorientated, couldn't really do much but weakly acknowledge the foreign, much stronger entity in his body. After yet another possession –the fifty fourth, he noted idly–, the door burst open, and someone who could only be Dean burst in.

Sam felt an eerie shiver of happiness that was definitely not his; seconds later, the ghost manipulated him, using his mouth like a sick puppeteer: "Dean! Help!"

Heavy footfalls hurried across the 'sewing room' (although it was, in fact, the room with the body parts, jars and shelves), and he felt Dean's hand on his forehead. "Sammy, you okay? It didn't hurt you, did it?"

_Stupid question, Dean,_ Sam thought.

With an extremely unpleasant expulsion of force, the ghost threw itself out of Sam's chest, and hovered in front of Dean, eventually coalescing into the form of a tall, pale teenaged boy with a pentagram around his neck, and wearing black from head to toe: Talon.

"No, just me," it replied pleasantly. "I expect you've come to witness the reunion?"

Although he had started violently when the ghost showed itself, Dean remained calm; the only indication of his worry was the fact that his eyes flickered back to Sam, ¾'s of the way unconscious on the floor. Forcing himself not to take his eyes off of Talon, he said as calmly as he could, "Audrey. Now."

Audrey floated through the doorway, her eyes bright with tears. In her palm, there was a swirling nimbus of blue magic, which lit up her face eerily. "Talon, how could you kill me?"

"You know I had to, Audrey, baby—"

"So you admit it!" She shrieked. _"Vado tergum ut abyssus , quod may vos nunquam reverto iterum!"_

The magic hurtled out of her palm, right at Talon. A split second before it was about to sink into his chest, however, the ghost threw itself back into Sam, taking refuge within his body. The magic dove right after the ghost, into Sam—

"Sammy! Audrey, you _bitch_!" He yelled; her reply was drowned out by Sam's reaction to the magic.

His brother stiffened, every muscle taut as a drawn bowstring. As Dean watched, horrified, Sam screamed. It was an ear shattering, vein throbbing howl, held for at least a minute. Faintly, he registered Audrey's moan of "I'm sorry," and the loud pop that signified her disappearance, but he ignored it.

Just as quickly as they had stiffened, his muscles went limp; Sam fell against the gurney, flaccid as a dead fish.

Dean was at Sam's side in a flash. He got on his knees next to his brother, feeling his heart constrict in his chest at the sight of Sam's pale face…_pale as a corpse_, a voice whispered in his mind. Doing his best to ignore the cynical side of his mind, he rested two trembling fingers at the pulse point below Sam's right ear. He held his breath, feeling for a pulse.

There wasn't one.

.xxx.

Ha! This was definitely a fun one to write. Don't kill me—patience is a virtue!

Latin translation: Go back to hell, and may you never return again!

Review responses:

rozzy02: Plenty of angst now, I'd say! Hope you like this one as I do…heehee!

imbreena: Lol! Hopefully, you didn't have to cover your eyes too much this time…XD.


	6. Chapter 6

Ragdoll

By, BROXA

Disclaimer: You know the drill, peeps.

Authors Note: I'm SO sorry this is so late…I don't have a reason, really, except for a lack of time. What with track, Middlemasters (select choir), Mastersingers auditions (high school select choir), school and such…I just didn't have the time to sit down at the computer for four or five hours and type. Oh, by the way…about the 911 stuff. I've never called 911, nor have I had a call traced, so I know this is inaccurate. I actually considered calling 911 to figure out how it happened, can you believe that?

Summary: It should've been a run of the mill hunt: pissed off, revenge seeking spirit. But when the tables are turned, and Sam finds himself the target of a deranged ghost, things take a far more sinister turn...

.xxx.

December 1st, 2004

Trying not to look at Sam's corpse, Dean pulled out his cell phone and dialed the three numbers his father had told him to never call.

"_911, is this an emergency?" _The voice of the operator came through, sinfully calm and smooth.

"Yes! I need an ambulance at…oh, fuck, no address…can you trace the call?" Dean asked frantically. The operator purred an affirmative, and a series of three quick beeps sounded loud and clear in Dean's ear. He jumped against his will.

"_An ambulance will arrive shortly. Have a nice day, sir,"_ drawled the operator, before a precise click signified her hanging up.

He put the phone back in his pocket, not knowing what to do. John had drilled them in every possible situation that was supernatural, but he'd never said "If one of you dies, here's what to do…" Probably because John knew what he expected his boys to do: fight on with more fervor, then move on, leaving the body for the cops to find. For the first time in his adult life, Dean found himself doubting his father…did he even care? Did John Winchester give a shit about his boys, or were they just pawns in his crusade?

An involuntary shudder tore through his body as he forced himself to leave the thoughts of John behind. Instead, Dean went over to where Sam still leaned against the gurney, eyes wide open and eerily glassy.

His throat constricted as he knelt down next to his baby brother. Unable to find words (_Sam'd have a field day,_ he thought affectionately), he reached out and gripped Sam's hand in his own, flinching as the stark coldness of Sam's flesh shocked him.

"Sammy…it's gonna be alright…" he whispered, but even as he said it, it felt like a lie. Sam's body was cold as ice, and already remarkably pale.

It was silent in the sewing room. Dean didn't have anything to say, and Sam sure as hell wasn't talking; when the front door of the house banged open, and numerous footsteps pounded over the floorboards above. After laying Sam's hand on the concrete floor, Dean stood up and ran out of the room, back into the ill-lit "waiting room".

"Down here!" He hollered, and the crashes and footsteps redirected almost immediately. Soon after, a door he hadn't noticed banged open, and four EMT's burst through, the last two dragging a portable gurney after them. "He's in here…hurry!"

With the EMT's following him, he hurried back into where Sam was. Behind him, he could hear their (three men, and a woman) reactions to the room; vaguely, he heard the sound of vomiting as the contents of the room proved too much for one of them.

"Dude…that's disgusting," muttered a youngish man, tall and tan with surfer hair.

"Man, you aren't here to admire the scenery! My brother hasn't got a pulse!" Dean barked, outraged, and the EMT's jumped back into action. While the woman (pale faced and wiping her mouth) set up the gurney, the men carefully picked up Sam's body. They held him awkwardly for a minute, then set him on the assembled gurney, and together the five of them hurried out of the house.

An ambulance waited on the road, lights flashing, and siren already wailing. A young man in blue scrubs opened the door, and they all piled into the ambulance. The woman collapsed the legs of the gurney and slid it onto a more stable surface, while one of the men heated up the defibrillators. Dean hovered nervously in the corner for a minute; then he hurried up and grabbed his brother's hand in a rare display of brotherly affection.

"And…clear!" Barked 'Surfer Boy'; the woman slapped the defibrillators onto Sam's exposed chest. Surfer Boy slipped two fingers onto Sam's pulse point, then shook his head. "Nothing."

"Clear!" Another jolt; Sam's chest jumped upwards, and for a second, Dean thought he saw a heartbeat. "Still nothing."

"Come on…come on…" Dean murmured without even knowing he was talking.

"One more try…clear!" Again, Sam's pulse was checked; again, Surfer Boy drew back, shaking his shaggy head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do."

The woman, whose nametag read Susan, sighed. "Such a handsome young man…" she commented, slipping the defibrillators back into their allotted places as the EMT's murmured silent agreements.

"No! Don't you just give up on my brother!" Dean asserted, looking from one EMT to another.

"Son, there's nothing we can do. He's gone," said an elderly man soothingly, reaching out as if to pat his shoulder. Dean dodged him, lunging under his arm for the defibrillators.

"Hey! You can't—" protested Susan, trying to twist around Surfer Boy to get to Dean.

"Yeah, shut up!" Dean barked, rubbing the defibrillators together awkwardly, and much faster than was usual.

"Oh, my…" Susan whispered, her hand over her mouth.

Dean ignored her, and for a final time, pressed the defibrillators down on Sam's chest. "C'mon, Sammy…come back, I need you…"

Sam's chest jolted up, and the electricity in the defibrillators was obvious as Dean drew them away, breath hitching in his throat.

Breathless waiting. Utter silence. Then…

By itself, Sam's chest rose. And fell. And rose again—Sam was breathing. It was all Dean could do to not drop to his knees and thank God as Sam's eyes lost their glassy quality, and he sat up.

"Dean? Man, what's going on?" He asked, voice weak and shaky.

However, before Dean could answer, Sam's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed.

"Sam! Shit!" Dean hissed, for a second fearing that Sam had died again. But the reassuring bleep of the heart monitor immediately assuaged his fears; as the EMT's worked, Dean relaxed and held Sam's hand, his other hand over his eyes. He didn't want to admit it, but this gig had thoroughly terrified him. And it wasn't over yet.

.xxx.

The ambulance ride had been quiet; Sam was in a natural, deep sleep, and there was really nothing for Dean or the EMT's to do or say, so the ride was made in silence, except for the constant murmur of the heart monitor.

Now as Dean sat by Sam's bed, listening to the hospital equipment, the quiet was stifling. He was glad that Sam was alright, of course, but a nagging voice in his head continuously reminded him that the job wasn't done yet. There were still two psychotic, mutilating ghosts out there, and they had damn near–hell, they _had_ killed his brother! Point was, they needed to die. Again.

After giving Sam's limp but warm hand a squeeze, Dean stood. "You'd better still be there when I get back, Houdini," he quipped, then slipped out of the door.

In the car, Dean pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sara's number. After three or four rings, the girl answered with a lazy hello.

"Sara? It's Dean—remember, we talked about the murders? Anyway, I need to know where Talon's body is buried," he said, as cordially as he could manage.

"Oh, um, he's buried in some cemetery…" she intoned hesitantly; he could practically hear her biting her nails.

"That so?" Dean replied through gritted teeth; Sara seemed to pick up on his hostility, and hurried to add to her sentence.

"I think it has the word Mary in the name. Or maybe it's Christ? I dunno, I don't exactly go grave hopping for fun!" She said defensively, then hung up.

"Fuck her…completely useless…" he grumbled, and in his distraction, he didn't see Audrey's ghost standing in the middle of the road until the Impala blazed through her.

It was like Constance Welch all over again, except this time, she didn't show up in the backseat; instead, Audrey stood by the side of the road, waiting. Swearing viciously under his breath, Dean pulled over and cut the engine. He stalked across the road to where Audrey waited, cool as punch.

"Man, you have **got** to stop just popping up like that!" He said in frustration, scowling at the ghost.

"Every time I 'pop up'—" here she manipulated her remaining fingers into quotation marks; Dean flinched in disgust "—I help. Don't you want help finding Talon's grave?"

"I'd shove a gun up my ass before I accepted a ghost's help!" He answered defensively, crossing his arms subconsciously.

"There are at least ten cemeteries within a twenty mile radius with the words Mary and or Christ in the title," she answered coolly, raising a dark eyebrow. "I could come with you and show you the correct cemetery, if you can bring yourself to accept my help."

"Hell, I'd pull the trigger. Bitch, you are not getting in my car," Dean asserted, sending the ghost his most malicious death stare.

Audrey said nothing; she merely pinned him with a dark, powerful gaze that had him fidgeting eventually. Finally, just as Dean was about to stalk back to the Impala, she spoke quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself. "I'd think you'd want to kill him. After all, he _did_ almost kill your brother, your only family in the world…"

He almost disagreed with her, almost told her that he had his dad too, but decided not to. Sammy was more important.

"Alright, fine. Just don't pull anything, and don't you **dare** leave any stray body parts in my car," he answered eventually, huffing in irritation. Audrey smiled winningly, and darted across the road in that eerie, too fast movement that he knew and hated. Before he could blink, Audrey was sitting primly in the passenger's seat.

He half ran across the street and slid into the driver's seat; with a thrill of some strange feeling, he realized that he could see the door through her transparent form. Biting back a cruel remark –he needed her help; he couldn't afford to offend her–, he put the car in gear and followed her directions sullenly.

After ten minutes of extremely awkward driving, the Impala purred to a halt in front of a shabby, horror movie cliché graveyard. The name of the cemetery (Mother Mary Cemetery of Rhett) was inscribed over the gate in cast iron lettering that would have been beautiful, had it not been so rusted. With Audrey hovering beside him, he pushed open the gate amid raucous creaking and strode into the cemetery, shovel over his shoulder, salt, oil and lighter clutched in his hand.

"This is it," Audrey said suddenly; Dean had to catch himself as he stumbled over an overgrown, almost invisible grave. Kicking some debris off of the stone, he read the writing.

Talon Strong

March 3rd, 1972 – December 6th, 1991

Beloved son, brother and friend

Gone too young

"Fucking menace to society—gone too young, my ass," grumbled Dean, digging the shovel into the rain moistened dirt. Audrey grinned.

"You should talk, Mr. Fake ID," she commented, in a rare display of lightness.

"How'd you know…you stole my wallet!" He cried, outraged, as Audrey drew his wallet out of one of her ragged pockets.

"Well, while you were unconscious in the waiting room, I got bored, so I took your wallet," she replied innocently, flipping it back to him. "Since when does F.B.I stand for 'fine body inspector'?"

He chose not to dignify that with a response; instead, he caught the wallet and tucked it back into his pocket. No one spoke as Dean dug; he was sweating and swearing under his breath; she was back in her "Airy Fairy" mode, drifting around distractedly.

Finally, a heavy bang echoed through the air: the shovel had struck wood. "Hey, Audrey! Ready to be reunited with your boyfriend?" He asked ironically, breaking in the top of the rotting coffin. It broke easily, being almost a decade old; the wood showered on top of Talon's skeleton noisily.

With morbid curiosity, Audrey bent over the coffin, wrinkling her nose as she looked over the yellowed corpse of her dead boyfriend. Scoffing, she stepped away. "Burn it."

"My pleasure," Dean answered happily, spreading salt then oil over the skeleton. "This time, stay in hell," he commented by means of farewell. He flipped open the lighter, and held it in front of his eyes for a long moment, then dropped it into the grave. Immediately, the skeleton burst into dramatic flames that almost rose out of the grave.

Behind him, there was a loud pop; Dean assumed that Audrey had vanished, so when he turned around, he was shocked: he was face to face with one of the most stunning young woman he had ever met.

She had pale, immaculate skin, and expressive brown doe eyes, accented with long, naturally curled eyelashes. Her dark hair tumbled over her slim shoulders, and a simple, but exquisite, crimson silk dress hugged every one of her curves. For a moment, she only gazed at him; then she smiled radiantly.

"Thank you. He was the only thing keeping me here…now, I may rest in peace," Audrey murmured, her voice as sleek and elegant as her dress. She leaned forward, and for a moment, Dean felt her ice cold lips brush against his cheek. Then, she shimmered out of view, leaving Dean alone in the cemetery, next to a flaming grave.

"Damn…if she wasn't dead…" he muttered, partly to relieve the tension, partly to break the awful silence that settled over the darkening graveyard.

He sighed and slung the shovel over his shoulder, then tucked the salt, oil and lighter into his pocket. As the flames of the burning grave spat and roared behind him, he walked away from the toughest gig he'd worked to date.

.xxx.

All right! That's chapter six…only one chapter left! A sort of epilogue, and it'll be regrettably short. However, it does set the stage for the next story!

Review responses (Nine! Niiiiiice!):

A-blackwinged-bird: Uh-oh, I hope you mean the good kind of bad! 

JEM515: Hell yeah, more! It might take me a while (-blushes-), but I'd never leave a story hanging.

Kylie: Thanks! So glad you like it!

rozzy07: Double express speed, huh? I'm afraid I failed at that one…sorry! And yes…I'm going for MI's! ;)

Anamalia-fear: Yup! Sammy visited hell…buaha. I think I'll explore that concept in a future one-shot. Maybe the next one…

Xdaisy chainX: Ooh, good! I like that effect! And the creepier the better, eh?

Ghostwriter: Hey, nice to see you again! Thanks for the compliment!

Dawn N: Yeah, I love stories like that too…that's why I wrote it! Sorry this isn't soon enough!

sexybeast: No problem, thanks for reviewing chapter five! Ragdoll up my nose? Creative…painful…XD! And thanks so much for the compliment!

Love and kisses to all of you! See you MUCH sooner…again, sorry this one was almost a week late. I really do feel bad.


	7. Epilogue

Ragdoll

By, BROXA

Disclaimer: You know the drill, peeps.

Authors Note: Damn, this is even later than the last one…sorry.

Summary: It should've been a run of the mill hunt: pissed off, revenge seeking spirit. But when the tables are turned, and Sam finds himself the target of a deranged ghost, things take a far more sinister turn...

.xxx.

December 3rd, 2004

Dean had been a good big brother; he'd given Sammy two days of rest and relaxation. But the restlessness that was a part of him was stirring; he felt the need to leave, and leave now.

He was positive that the well meaning doc wouldn't let Sam out of the hospital yet; feeling like a criminal, he slipped evasively through the hall, pressing himself against corners James Bond style. It was almost 2 AM, and a slow night, but every now and then, a nurse would hurry past, or the occasional distraught spouse.

Moving the creaky door as slowly as possible, he let himself into Sam's hospital room; Sammy was sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide. Dean smiled absentmindedly to see his brother so alert; Sam scowled.

"Man, what the hell are you doing here? It's _way_ past visiting hours," Sam quipped, swinging his long legs out of bed.

"We're goin', we've spent too long here," Dean whispered, ducking down awkwardly as a nurse trotted past the window. Sam snorted. "Here ya go, Sally—" Sam had so many series of stitches across his face that he looked like a ragdoll "—I brought you some clothes."

He turned his back as Sam changed awkwardly, and together they slipped out of the hospital. They were stopped once, by a pretty, bespeckled brunette, who wanted to know where Sam's scars had came from; Dean skimmed everything over with an obviously fake story about a bear attack, but other than that, their Mission Impossible-esque escape went smoothly.

.xxx.

With Sam asleep in the passenger's seat, Dean did something he had never done before: he turned the music off.

Glaringly loud in the sudden silence, his cell phone rang. Dean jumped about a mile, swore violently, and picked up the bouncing, wailing phone. Willing his pulse to go down, he answered the phone.

A female voice, loud and panicky, came through.

"Dean—Dean, your dad's voicemail said to call—something's happening, my friends are dying, and I don't know what—"

Thoroughly taken aback, he wrinkled his eyebrows and held the phone away from his ear for a second.

"Whoa, easy—who is this?"

"Anna Lipowitz…your dad was a friend of my mom's—please! Help, it's _coming!"_

"Now? Is something coming now?" He asked hesitantly; Sam slumbered on in the passenger's seat.

"No, but it will!" She wailed, obviously terrified.

"Okay, okay. Where are you?"

"Paley, North Dakota. 355 Northwind Boulevard. Hurry!" She cried, and the call was dropped with a deafening screech.

Dean snapped the phone shut and dropped it. With a sigh and a glance at Sam, he swung the Impala around.

"Anna Lipowitz, here we fucking come," he grumbled.

.xxx.

I hope this ending (was it an ending? XD) didn't disappoint!

Review responses:

sexybeast: Thanks! I would've cried, too…XD. As you can probably see, this isn't a lead up to Til Death Do Us Part…muaha.

Xdaisy chainX: Ooh, good! That was meant to be comedic, I could just picture that in my head. I hope this wasn't TOO late…

Ghostwriter: No problem, that's what held this one up!

sammysgurl: Thanks so much! I'm SO happy you like it!

Spuffyshipper: Oh, I get that too…XD. I read anything I can get my hands on. Glad this grabbed you!

Anamalia-fear: Merci! I do plan to do the hell thing soon.


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